


I've Been Checking My List

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Christmas Fluff, Falling In Love, Family moments, Holidays, M/M, New Beginnings, Peterick, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 12:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13076979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Pete's not sure he's ready to move on but then he meets Patrick in a bar at Christmas. Just a good-looking stranger who's startlingly bad at pool.What ifChristmas really does bring unexpected surprises?What ifPete just needs to fall and trust Patrick to catch him?Part of Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick 2017!





	I've Been Checking My List

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks ever so to flames_and_jade and the_chaotic_panda for offering beta services on this! Much appreciated!

Shuffle forward a step, stop, pause and take a breath to answer a dozen questions fired like bullets, a mile a moment. That was life for Pete, it had been for two years. But it was also an appropriate description of his penance as he stood in line to experience the wonder of Christmas at the annual Shining Smiles charity Santa’s grotto in Millennium Park. His daughter bounced by his side, ramping her brother into a state of near-collapse with excitement and he swore, like he did every year, that next time they’d do the pizza, soda and all you can eat ice cream _after_ the grotto. The last thing they needed was Santa _and_ sugar.

Annabelle - Bella, as her mother called her - twirled herself dizzy, laughing uproariously as her dress flared at her hips and she called, bright and clear, “Look, daddy! I’m a princess!”

Seven years old and so like her mother in every detail from the wide green eyes to the soft, dark curls that tumbled over her shoulders. She was the apple of her father’s eye and had been since the day the doctor placed her into his arms. Her brother joined her, spinning unsteadily on chubby toddler legs, arms outstretched like he could take flight if he just wished for it hard enough. Theodore - Teddy Bear when he wasn’t biting anyone - was the image of Pete, traced from his features with teeth just a little too big for his mouth and skin like warm honey. And although Pete smiled as he watched them land, ass first, in the snow at the side of the walkway, his heart hurt a little that their mom wasn’t here to see those moments, to take them in like he could.

It had been close to three years. He wondered if maybe his friends were right and he should start to move on.

The line wound forward and they wound with it, sugar and caffeine and the childlike buzz of _being_ lifting them higher and higher until they were close to turning feral as they took the final few steps towards the grotto. There stood a smiling teenager, resplendent in his elf costume, who took each kid by the hand and led them forward, ushering them onto Santa’s lap - a knee apiece - then urged Pete back as the kids took their moment.

“Ho ho ho,” Santa was nothing if not predictable, but there was a genuine warmth to his voice, the beard glowing suspiciously white and acrylic against his rosy cheeks and Pete could almost hear Bella’s verging-on-disbelief objection that the _real_ Santa would have a _real_ beard. “Merry Christmas! Tell me, have you been _good_ little boys and girls?”

Teddy promptly burst into tears. Fat, wet, _snotty_ tears. Santa’s eyes widened behind his glasses and he leaned close to Teddy’s ear, murmuring something Pete couldn’t catch that calmed the sobs before he could take half a step forward to rescue his son. Bella regarded Santa with her mom’s curiosity and sparkle and Pete snapped a discrete picture of two tiny faces tilted up in wonder.

He heard very little of their conversation, the three of them as thick as thieves as they whispered conspiracies punctuated with smiles and giggles. He caught the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question though to the ring of, “And what can Santa bring you for Christmas?”

“A robot!” Teddy squeaked. “A puppy! A… A _dinosaur!” You’re shit outta luck, kid,_ Pete thought with a wry grin, _you’re getting a scooter._

Bella, for her part, just rolled her eyes, shot her daddy a speculative glance and, hand cupped in secrecy, leaned up to whisper into Santa’s ear. Santa glanced at Pete, a look impossible interpret behind the magnificence of his fake beard and the thick glasses. He pressed a hand to the little girl’s curls and, with a wink and a _hohoho_ , sent them scurrying back to Pete with the usual cheap toy tucked under their arms.

“What did you ask for, Bella Boo?” He asked with heavy curiosity.

“I can’t tell you, silly,” she sang out like he was the biggest idiot (he was, but she could have been nicer about it.) “Or else I won’t know if Santa is real.”

As they fought in the back of the car, a chorus of _“she kicked me,”_ and _“tell him to put his foot back on his side, daddy_ , _”_ Pete rubbed his jaw and blinked eyes that always felt heavy with exhaustion. He half-heartedly demanded peace amongst the warring factions and, flicking a glance at the dark circles under his eyes in the rear-view mirror, he wondered if anything would ever lift the aching sadness in his chest.

~*~

Three days later he leaned against the bar with Andy and Joe, beer bottle cradled in his hands as they laughed and joked together. An office party of sorts, if the three of them could count as an office with their little music store-cum-cafe tucked down a back street in Chicago’s Near North Side. But they had fun and made enough to pay the bills so Pete didn’t complain too much when they made suggestive comments about pretty customers or tried to set him up a Tinder profile. Everyone was starting to say the same thing, even his mom had murmured a soft _“maybe you’ll meet someone nice…”_ as she herded the kids into the kitchen for milk and cookies when he had dropped them off earlier.

But Pete just wasn’t sure he was ready to feel someone else warming the bed other than his kids. He wasn’t certain his heart was suitably healed to absorb another soul although he flirted with the _what ifs_. _What if_ he met someone wonderful. _What if_ they were great with his kids. _What if_ Emma would have liked them.

_What if._

So, as Andy and Joe settled into the world’s most fiercely competitive game of pool, Pete leaned against the wall and watched with an amused smile. He watched and he didn’t notice someone sidling closer and closer to him until there was a pointed nudge of an elbow against his ribs and he jumped, startled, turning to meet eyes that glowed somewhere between blue and green, ringed with gold, eyes that took his breath away. He paused, confused, and blinked at the stranger, took in the fedora and dark blonde hair that swept across his brow. Pete’s eyes traced lush pink lips - the lower caught between straight, white teeth - and delicate cheekbones stretched with porcelain pale skin. He took in the cardigan, the skinny jeans, the boots. He stared and he thought something he hadn’t thought in a very long time.

The stranger was _gorgeous_.

“I’ll play you for the next game?” The stranger suggested, nodding at the game that seemed on the verge of descending into violence. “Sorry, is that weird? My friend took off and… I guess I thought you looked lonely. Are- are they a couple?”

 _“Those_ assholes?” Pete shook his head with a laugh and tried to calm the messy beat of his heart. “Nah, best friends forever. I’m Pete, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Pete-by-the-way, I’m Patrick Stump,” it was a horrible joke, a dad joke, and Pete still snorted on his beer.

“Stump? Kinda unfortunate when you’re-”

“Short?” Patrick cut him off with a sad shake of his head. “Tragic, I know. But we deal with what we’re given, right?”

“Yeah,” Pete nodded as the dull stab of pain sparked bright and blooming in his chest. “I guess so.”

Patrick, it transpired, was fantastic company. Friendly without being overbearing, kind without being too soft, he had a pretty smile and breath-taking eyes and when he laughed – which was often – it sang through Pete like a melody. He was terrible at pool but brilliant with the jukebox, feeding coins into it as he frowned through the selection with thoughtful care. He told Pete he was twenty-nine and a doctor, a family physician at a clinic nearby and Pete could almost _hear_ his mom’s approving hum. Patrick’s eyes widened in surprise when Pete told him about _Food of Love_ \- his little store - and declared their vegan cupcakes to be his favorite accompaniment to a new record or two. Pete wondered – out loud, embarrassingly enough – how he’d never seen him there before. Weekend customer, Patrick explained and that made sense; Pete left the weekends to Andy and Joe so he could spend time with his kids.

Patrick, he’d already decided, was wonderful.

So, as the night drew to a close and the revellers tipped out of the bar to the raucous chorus of Fairytale of New York, Pete didn’t object when Patrick pushed him gently against the wall and slid their mouths together like puzzle pieces. No, instead he just wound his arms around Patrick, brushed his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his pale neck and battled with the sweet softness of an inquisitive tongue against his own.

He might have raised a middle finger over Patrick’s shoulder at Andy’s whoop and Joe’s call of _“don’t forget the condoms,”_ as they disappeared towards the L.

They kissed like teenagers—all grasping hands and tilting hips. It should have felt foreign and unfamiliar; it had been two years since he last kissed someone, longer, much longer, since he’d kissed a _man_. But it felt right in every way under the glow of the Christmas lights, the scent of aftershave, beer and sweet maleness washing his senses and flooding them with lust.

“Would you like to come back to my place?” Patrick murmured, the question caught in the mist of his breath that hung between them in the frigid air. Pete blinked as Patrick waited, blue eyes coloured with hope, for his answer.

“Yeah,” he replied, his breath mingling with Patrick’s as he nipped a kiss to his lips. “I think I would.”

“It’s not far,” Patrick assured him as he turned up the collar of his leather jacket and tucked his scarf more securely around his neck. “Maybe ten minutes across the park.”

It turned out more like thirty when they stopped to kiss every fifty or so paces, the lights of the park’s Christmas tree catching in Patrick’s eyes and sparking them with innumerable twinkling points of light that glowed back at Pete like a promise. They walked with their hands in one another’s back pockets which proved awkward and unsteady but meant Pete could surreptitiously grope the warm curve of Patrick’s frankly delightful ass. They behaved like kids, biting kisses to one another’s necks as they walked – Pete ended up with a mouthful of cashmere on most attempts – laughing and joking their way through the glittering beauty of lights that marked the holiday.

The apartment block Patrick took him to was expensive, glass and chrome stretching skyward and speaking of money and opportunities. Pete supposed a doctor probably earned pretty well and tried not to think of his own cozy little two-bed out in the suburbs, rundown and in need of some love but filled with memories he couldn’t bear to leave behind. There was a short elevator ride, fingers laced and knuckles pressed together as Pete fought stray thoughts of pushing Patrick back to the mirrored wall and falling to his knees in front of him…

There followed a hushed _ping_ and the doors swished open onto a plush hallway that smelled of new carpet and fresh paint. Patrick led the way to his front door and, after a moment of fumbling with his key, pushed it open to reveal the dorkiest apartment Pete had ever seen. There were framed posters _everywhere_ ; Bowie and Prince, Star Wars and Batman, there were action figures lined up on a bookcase amongst hardback copies of things like _The Encyclopaedia of Sci-Fi_ and _A Visual Guide to The Comic Book Universe._ It was dorky and nerdy and utterly, hopelessly charming.

“So,” for the second time that night Pete was pinned between a wall and Patrick. He started to think it might be one of his favourite places to be. “Coffee? Or…”

“Or,” Pete grinned into smiling eyes that glowed like sunset on riptide, thumb tracing the velvet plush sweep of Patrick’s plump lower lip. “Definitely _or…_ ”

Patrick hummed his approval into Pete’s mouth, the sweep of his tongue flavoured with malt and peppermint. His teeth sparked bright points of brilliant pressure as he nipped at Pete’s lips, along his jaw and down to suck lightly at his neck. All Pete could do was wind his fingers into dirty blonde hair and hold him close, to savour the pressure and warmth of another body. He didn’t realise how much he’d missed it until right in that moment in a strange apartment with a good-looking guy biting bruises into his neck.

They tripped to the couch, fumbled feet and fingers, snagged jackets and shirts until they tumbled down together in a tangle. Somehow, Patrick lost his cardigan and shirt but kept his scarf. Some-wonderful-how, Pete’s belt was unbuckled and his jeans unzipped as his back hit the cushions. His legs were spread, his mouth gasping for air and grasping for Patrick as deft, clever fingers found the tight heat of a nipple under his shirt. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room so he stole it from willing lungs via pretty lips. He knew the sharp scrub of faint stubble against his chin shouldn’t be enough to make his cock twitch, he knew he shouldn’t surrender all reason to a soft mouth against his throat, against places he’d forgotten were sensitive. He knew, as Patrick began to grind their hips together in a slow roll, that he didn’t care about what he thought he knew.

“You haven’t done this for a while.” It wasn’t a question so Pete didn’t answer, it didn’t sound judgemental so he didn’t complain. It was a fact, he wasn’t going to deny it. “Let me take care of you, okay?”

That sounded like heaven to Pete as he leaned back against the couch, as Patrick slid to his knees between thighs spread like an invitation and – slowly, with a tease of a grin – he ran a single fingertip under the waistband of Pete’s ratty Superman boxers. Patrick’s, from what Pete could see, were designer and didn’t look like the elastic was about to give up and die. Patrick didn’t appear to have two kids to raise so Pete decided not to care too much as he tilted his hips, closed his eyes and surrendered to the drag of his jeans and underwear down and further to snag at his ankles. There was cool air on his cock that throbbed in time with his pulse, a shiver down his spine as Patrick’s warm hand came to rest on his thigh.

“Wow,” he muttered and Pete felt gratified. Patrick’s gaze grew serious, that little smirk falling shy from his lips as he continued softly. “This is okay, yeah?”

He was a little shocked to discover it _was_ , that climbing back on the horse wasn’t anywhere close to as traumatic as he thought it would be. Maybe it was because Patrick was a guy, or maybe it was the gentle encouragement in his eyes but it felt natural to tangle his fingers into blonde hair and draw him closer with a nod and a hungry moan. Patrick paused, lips brushed to the tender, sticky tip of Pete’s cock like he was getting a feel for him, working out what he might like from brief contact that jolted tingling sensation down Pete’s spine.

When Patrick asked what he wanted, Pete wasn’t sure he knew, couldn’t possibly pin down the _could be_ from the _would be_ , the _may have_ from the _must_. It was an impossible thought, wonderous complexities of never-ending need wrapped up in the knowledge that this – glorious _this_ , whatever it may have been – was happening at all. He wondered if he retained any control over the night, if there was something he could do to calm the pounding throb of his pulse in every single vein and then…

“Please,” he breathed, robbed of the right words. “Just… please.”

 _Then_ Patrick was sucking him. Patrick, greedy on his knees, cheeks hollowed and tongue doing clever things – so many of them, more than Pete knew how to _feel_ – around the gorged-thick head of Pete’s cock. Pete tasted his cries rather than heard them, felt the scrape-raw sting at the back of his throat like he felt the curved smooth line of Patrick’s jaw under his fingers. Patrick became all at once the hum of blood in his veins, the discordant pound of a pulse ringing in his ears that he couldn’t be sure was his or Patrick’s – maybe they were the same – as he dropped his head back and whimpered his approval at the ceiling like it could hear him.

Legs spread with wanton need, hips tilted glutinous and grasping, he couldn’t-wouldn’t-mustn’t- _wanted to_ thrust down the tight heat of Patrick’s throat. Patrick’s tongue tipped with desire found the twist-flare of veins standing sharp against the shaft of his cock, found the sensitive underside of the head that made him twitch against slick wet heat. There was a hand against the swell of his balls, stroking soft and slicking against spit at the root of his cock and Pete wondered – absent and gasping – if he might possibly be dying.

He arched his back, closed his eyes and gave himself purely to sensation, trusting suction and friction and hands that seemed to be everywhere all at once. There were nails scoring patterns into his thighs, a quick and clever tongue against his cock and delighted, snuffling moans that hummed through him like a symphony. Then, a finger, gentle and inquisitive, nudged soft as sunlight between his cheeks, enough to snap his eyes wide and uncertain to Patrick’s.

Patrick gazed back with eyes lust-glazed and heavy, pupils blown black with desire and pale skin coloured a delicate rose as he arched his brows in silent question. Pete nodded desperately as he raked in a greedy gasp, kicked his legs as far apart as he could and raised his hips and, with a hungry, greedy little groan, Patrick swallowed him down. He took him completely until the tip of his nose bumped to the heated flush of Pete’s groin, to dark curls and golden skin. Pete could have sworn – in that moment – that he forgot how to breathe, that his lungs no longer recalled the familiar contract and expand rhythm of his respiration, that he was choking on _not-enough-too-much_.

“Bedroom?” Pete’s dick was wet-red-slick, wrapped in Patrick’s hand. He gaped, mouth round with shock as he stared down at Patrick, at the smirk that curved his lips – just as wet-red-slick as Pete’s prick – and stuttered a whine as Patrick laved his tongue against the nerve-raw crown of his cock.

Pete didn’t want to move, wanted to sprawl on the couch forever with that exquisite mouth wrapped around his prick, wanted Patrick to suck him until he couldn’t think and yet…

And yet, there were certain _practicalities_ to be found on a bed.

He nodded, kicked away the tangled knot of denim that bound him and stagger-stumbled his way to his feet, to Patrick’s arms, to the taste of Patrick’s lips glazed salt-and-bitter with the bite of precum and cock. He licked the taste of himself from each tender crevice he could find, meeting a mouth stoked with fire so hard and fast he was amazed no one lost a tooth. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered as Patrick’s knees hit the mattress, as they gave and he tumbled dragging Pete with him to land hard and breathless and wrapped together.

He grabbed Patrick’s hips, let his nails bite crescents of rose into unmarred alabaster, raked lines that stood stark as sentries against his flesh as he dragged away his shorts, felt the interested bounce of a thick, heavy cock against his own. Patrick’s mouth found his throat, found his ear, found the spot just behind that made him see stars as he rutted down with desperate heat. Patrick licked and kissed and _bit_ each tattoo he could reach, teeth grazing fire across Pete’s skin as they rocked their hips like waves, the spit-tack skin of his cock rubbing an ache against the satin-smooth length of Patrick’s until he was panting... gasping… _suffocating…_

He kissed Patrick’s skin like he could absorb him, open-mouthed and tasting, tongue and teeth and a hand that grasped at the needy throb of his own cock. He found the bud of Patrick’s nipple and sucked, nipped biting kisses that made him buck and gasp, that threaded his hands into Pete’s hair and urged him lower. Pete licked the hollow of Patrick’s navel, found the coarse trail of hair that led… that led…

“Oh _fuck_ , Pete,” Patrick arched his back and raised his hips as Pete sucked him down, all pink, pretty and delicious. He sucked and tasted, curled his tongue in questioning exploration, listened to sighs and gasps and groans that rung with melody between them. Unfamiliar but shatteringly recognised, he stroked at hips like cream and gathered up each whisper of his name, stored and catalogued and kept as _his._

He wanted to feel Patrick come undone, to feel him shudder beneath him, inside him, to taste the bitter flood of his orgasm bright and sharp against his tongue. He wanted it all as he bobbed his head faster, as he sucked harder, as he stroked and pulled at the tight tuck of Patrick’s testicles, thumb rubbing a hidden beat against the bump of his perineum. Patrick growled and snarled, head thrashing against the pillow with urgent intent, spine tense and toes curled, he groaned a plea, “Not yet, come on Pete, _please_ …”

Pete stopped though he didn’t _want_ to. He paused and nuzzled kisses to the sharpness of Patrick’s hipbone, sucked a bruise there traced from his lips and slithered his way up the bed and into Patrick’s grasp. Legs caught together and lips tasting, they rutted and writhed, tangled like vines as hands grasped with greed into hips, sinking fingers into soft flesh.

“I can suck you til you come,” Patrick offered, a twinkle bright in his eyes a hand soft against Pete’s cheek. _“Or…”_

“Oh, _or,”_ Pete groaned as clever fingers found the sensitive rim of his hole, stroking delicate circles that turned him half-mad. He tried to twist down, tried to force them inside, deeper and further to where he wouldn’t _think_ but Patrick pulled back, teased and stroked as Pete begged. “Fuck, Patrick, _please or…”_

Flipped to his back beneath the solid press of Patrick’s body, Pete gasped his approval into the willing press of Patrick’s tongue. He burned, flames licking heat through him from the inside, scorching his lungs as he writhed, thighs hooked over Patrick’s hips and body on display. He glowed with the approving sighs, with the whispers of praise and the flushed-hot pillar of Patrick’s prick, thick and beautiful, a testament that he wanted this too, and _fuck_ it felt good to be wanted. He’d nearly forgotten how that felt..

He wanted more, wanted everything Patrick could give him and something else. He nodded, dumb with madness, when Patrick whispered questions that didn’t make sense – what else could he possibly desire but that man, that body, that fucking gorgeous _cock_ buried inside of him until the world glowed bright and dreamlike? There was the slick of lube to fingers – long, elegant digits, musician’s hands – fingers that probed the tender twitch of his ass. One fingertip, delicate and sweet, breached the impossibly tight pucker, pushing and probing with finesse so exquisite his eyes watered with bliss. Head thrown back and hands fisted into the crisp, expensive-feeling cotton of Patrick’s sheets he cried out, words lost to ecstasy as that finger slipped inside and found that spot, that delicious and powerful depth that made his legs twitch and his back arch. He strangled his howl in the bite of a lip, the sting of salted copper bright on his tongue until Patrick kissed it away, eyes a sparkle of mischief as he whispered into the satin shell of Pete’s ear, “Be as loud as you want, fuck, you sound _incredible…”_

Knowing fingers worked a miracle inside of him, the first joined by a second that stroked him insane. Patrick frowned his concentration in a creased brow and tight lips, grin bursting sun-bright and gleaming when Pete cried out again as he touched that livewire inside of him, sparked explosions of heat and pleasure so poignant he almost confused it for pain as it crawled like flames over his skin. He bucked and thrashed and begged for more, begged for it all and then – oh please, God – something more, something he couldn’t articulate but knew he needed more than he needed the next draw of hot breath into his lungs.

More lube, more fingers, suddenly three, crossed and knotted and worked into the most impossibly perfect curve, stroking against him with blissful carnality, blindingly brilliant in all of the most earth-shattering ways. He groaned and writhed, straining up on those legs wrapped around milk-pale hips, he begged with all that he had, with grasping hands and gasping lungs, with greedy thighs and hungry hips. He gazed up and hoped his eyes could articulate what his foolish lips had no hope of doing; he wanted it all, wanted the heated-hard press of Patrick inside of him like shining perfection.

Patrick knew. It was there in the curve of his smirk, in the glitter-glow of riptide eyes under lashes tinted gold, in the ravening sink of nails into Pete’s thighs and the glutinous grasp of his fingers deep inside. Pete moaned his name as he begged without articulation, as Patrick soothed him soft with a hand that stroked and cupped the stubbled line of his jaw, tilted his chin so he could capture his lips like stolen riches.

“More,” he whispered against soft lips, hole twitching around the push of Patrick’s fingers. “Please.”

Patrick nodded, and fumbled for something, the distant rip of foiled plastic and slick of lubed latex heralding him rolling to his knees, securing a condom with care. Another slide of his slippery palm against his cock and then he was back between Pete’s spread thighs – caught high on his waist – kissing desperate desire into the golden hollow of his throat where sweat beaded and rolled sharp with salt that glazed his lips as they sunk into another frantic kiss.

Then came the blunted push of Patrick’s cock against his hole, the tingling way it pressed him open, just a fraction, just testing pressure that hinted at more, at blissful fullness that would empty his mind of anything but throbbing nerves and base urges. He nodded frantic approval into Patrick’s neck, into the tendrils of hair that caught like twisted vines against the damp heat of his skin, hissed his fevered pleas into the scent of cologne and sweat but Patrick paused. He slipped an arm under Pete’s back with tender care, cradled him close and brought the salt-misted press of their foreheads to rest together. Eyes and lips separated by millimetres, tender fondness written soft and easy across his features as he smiled lazily.

“Put your arm around me,” he whispered. Pete obeyed, mirroring his action and sliding his arm under Patrick’s, hooked around his back with a hand anchored firm to his shoulder. “Good. Take my hand,” Pete did, free hand groping for Patrick’s, fingers laced as Patrick pressed them back into the pillow by his head, a wondrous parody of a waltz, “Okay. We stop if you need to, alright? Just… Let me make you feel good.”

Pete nodded, breathless, as he pressed forward. Just the thick flare of the crown of his cock breaching muscle intent on expelling him. Just the burn of the tip – always hurt the most – he just needed to breath deep and slow, to kiss the pain to pleasure into plush, plump lips in the most delicious petal-soft pout. He scraped into the tender stretch of Patrick’s shoulder, until he was sure there must be curls of white caught under his nails and tracks of ruby scored into Patrick’s skin. But he nodded again at Patrick’s whisper-hushed question, breathed his answer into his mouth around the plunder of his tongue.

_More._

Hips drawn up and back arched in a plea, he welcomed each burning inch as Patrick sunk into him. It felt _good_ to be filled to bursting, that hard swell of engorged flesh sliding slick against him. It lasted forever, that first slow thrust, a lifetime, eternity and more, like Patrick had been sliding inside of him since time began, since the universe exploded to life from nothing but a spray of atoms and _heat._

Patrick stilled, the line of his groin flush to the curve of Pete’s ass, carved of the same, perfect and pure, a masterpiece of sweat and blood and blissful need. Patrick waited, still and sure, thumb scoring gentle circles against Pete’s hand for that moment, that split second when everything gave and softened, for the beat of time when Pete surrendered to him. Their mouths met, sweet and tasting, tongues a flicker against one another and then, with careful deliberation, Patrick began to move. He started slowly, a gentle roll of his hips, enough to make Pete cry out into his mouth as neglected nerve endings fired into glorious, shuddering life.

It was unfamiliar at first, that strange press and stretch of pressure and fullness filling him with fire, enough to keep his fingers squeezed hard around Patrick’s. Enough to make him keen and whine and thrash as Patrick rolled and rocked and worked his hips like waves. His cock was caught between them, tender tip slick with precum and rubbed to hypersensitivity against the bristle of golden hair on Patrick’s stomach, each push and rub a revelation of exploding technicolour.

Pete groaned words that didn’t make sense, nonsense laced with Patrick’s name as the solid heat of Patrick’s thick, gorgeous cock found that bundled epicentre of pleasure that hummed inside of him. White hot searing sensation crackled like static and tore him apart. He needed to touch his cock, the throb of it insistent between them, needed _Patrick_ to touch him and shoved their laced hands down, wrapped them around his shaft together and tugged and stroked, guided Patrick’s palm to just the right rhythm and pressure. Patrick moaned, something barely intelligible, some fleeting declaration lost on honeyed lips that scraped raw and needing against the exposed column of Pete’s throat.

He grasped up with a greedy mouth, found the velvet tag of Patrick’s earlobe and bit down softly, pulled back to whisper filth of the next times, of the times before that hadn’t happened but should have, of the moments that would come. He murmured it without thinking, driven entirely by the sensation of being utterly filled, contained and surrounded by the scent, the push-pull, the _essence_ of Patrick. He urged Patrick to stroke him raw, to trace the pad of his thumb against the delicate crown of his cock, leaking a steady stream of _need_ that salted their skin.

Patrick seemed to give, something inside of him snapping with his hips, eyes flooding dark and desperate as he fucked into Pete with wanting little grunts. He jerked the dark length of Pete’s prick, stroked him insensible with stuttering need that stammered over his lips as sticky syllables that seemed to catch thick in his throat. They moved together, perfectly synced and wanting, feeding the heated glow of need that stoked fire in their bellies because Pete was sure – undeniably and blissfully sure – that Patrick could feel it just as he could, deep and resonate and humming on blood cells from a single, syncopated heartbeat that they shared. He swore their lungs rose and fell to the same stuttered breaths gasped from desperate mouths, to share recycled oxygen, hot and  stale but _perfect_ between them.

He felt all of this and more as the tight coil of heat low in his groin spread and rolled and powered through him in choppy waves. He felt each shuddering twitch of individual muscles as his cock throbbed in their joined hands, as the first powerful pulse began and come ribboned – hot, pearl-shine and gossamer spun – from the head of his cock. There was the rip and tear of his seams, the tilt and twirl of the very earth beneath them as it juddered on its axis for it must have done – it _must_ – there was no other explanation. He bit his ecstasy – each shuddering shake and pulsing throb of his heart that beat down into his cock and, he was certain, through Patrick’s palm to thrum through him mirrored and perfect – into the softness of Patrick’s chest. He tasted salt and skin and something unidentifiably _perfect_ as his very being shivered like shock. He felt everything and nothing, tasted, smelled, _knew_ , and he swore he saw other worlds crashing to ruins at the blissful apex of his undoing.

Everything came back in stages. The rush of hard breathing and trickle of sweat against his skin. The hand still caught with his, slicked with come and the bitter bleach smell of it, the musk of skin and sex as thick in the air as if they were submerged in it. The tremble of Patrick against him suggested he’d fallen apart with Pete. He was sorry he’d missed it, missed the chance to watch him come undone but took the moment to press a kiss almost comically chaste to the fuck-flush of his lips. Patrick sighed – exaggerated, cheeks blown and eyes wide – grinned something delirious about showers then collapsed to the mattress at Pete’s side with a giggle.

They kissed, oh how they kissed, testing the press of lips and tongues, the twine of hands into hair and palms skimming soft against sweat-glow skin. A hand slipped deft between his legs, found the limp, sticky curve of his cock and began to stroke, quick and clever.

Pete groaned appreciation into that soft mouth. There were hours before the reality of daylight would steal the holiday magic from their night. He could fill them with sweat and need and Patrick, of that much he was sure.

~*~

Pete woke stupefied and sticky-tongued, balanced with perilous precision on the edge of an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room with an arm that seemed remarkably at home thrown over his waist. He blinked away grit and last night’s beer, waited for the taste of regret to spring sharp at the back of his throat. There was a tiny Christmas tree in Patrick’s living room, four bulb-tipped branches peeking shyly around the edge of the bedroom door. The regret didn’t arrive.

Patrick stirred, murmured a groan and drew him infinitesimally closer. His sheets smelled of cotton and fabric softener and warm, sweet skin, the kind of smell Pete could sink into. He pressed back into the lines of _Patrick_ , the unfamiliar familiarity of a _someone else_ in bed with him, the hard curve of morning wood that reflected his own nudged easily wanting into the small of his back.

“Mmm, morning,” Patrick whispered, his cock pressed thick with promise to the crease of Pete’s ass. “Sleep well?”

Pete was sure the awkwardness would split him apart at any moment, that the warm trickle of relaxed-happy-content would be fractured by the icy sense of disloyalty creeping its way along his spine. It was hard to feel anything but blissful he nodded and as Patrick urged him onto his back to begin a leisurely exploration of his mouth, as his hand snaked to the hard throb of Pete’s cock, twitching interest between his legs. He lost himself in nothing but sensation, in damp heat and smooth warmth and filth whispered into his ear from lips drenched in need.

He stretched up, touched his fingertips to the headboard as Patrick groaned approval into his throat, he arched his narrow hips and begged with words he thought he’d forgotten for things he imagined he’d never have. Lips brushed with feathered touch against his collarbone, tongue scoring the ink there with more heat than seemed entirely feasible, trailing lower and down as he bucked and groaned but –

“I have kids!” Pete gasped as Patrick wrapped his lips around the tight bud of his nipple. Patrick paused, eyebrows raised, mouth still lush against skin in a flush of a pout.  “I- I have kids.”

Patrick sighed through his smile as he raised his head slowly, as he shook his head and traced a fingertip lightly over the thorns that threaded their way between Pete’s collarbones. He paused to press a soft kiss to Pete’s jaw, to trail his lips softly over his earlobe, catching it in a teasing bite as he whispered, “I like kids.”

“I’m… A single dad,” Pete continued, hating himself for not just enjoying the moment, for failing to simply savour the soft mouth of a pretty guy. “It’s just me. And them. No mom.”

“I like _you_ ,” Patrick murmured. “Listen, we can totally be a one-night thing if that’s what you want. But… I like you. I’d love to see you again, you can’t scare me away with kids. So, when do you have to pick them up?”

“I told my mom around one,” Pete smiled, nervously needing.

“It’s ten,” Patrick observed with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “I can take you out for brunch… _Or_ I can suck your dick and see where that takes us.”

“Or,” Pete grinned as Patrick slipped down the bed, all mischief and teasing touches. “ _Definitely_ , or…”

And later, when Patrick dropped him off at his mom’s - _you’re not taking the L, seriously Pete, I have to pick my dog up anyway_ – there was a flurry of exchanged numbers, a kiss that lingered hot and bright against his lips as his mom’s living room curtains twitched. He barely made it up the porch steps before his phone vibrated in his pocket, _nice ass x_ , so he gave his hips a shake and laughed golden at the raucous symphony playing from the car horn as the neat little BMW rolled away.

The kids buried him alive in kisses, piled on him in a mass of limbs and lips and – Teddy at least – sticky hands. His mom just smiled that knowing sort of mom smile and he knew, with a flush of teenage embarrassment, that she saw him in the car. He took them home to prepare for Christmas and wondered, with an absent sort of hope glowing like the embers in the fireplace, if he’d see Patrick again.

Christmas was the same bittersweet sort of affair it had become. There were gifts and twinkling lights and dinner at his mom’s. There were tears stolen in the bathroom when no one was looking that put a sting on his throat and an ache in his chest. There was a text or two from a handsome dork who saved a silly selfie with his number. There was a flutter in Pete’s stomach when he thought about warm hands stroking him desperate, a soft mouth kissing him on fire. There was something that felt suspiciously close to _missing_ lake-mirror eyes and plush, smiling lips.

_What’re you doing for New Year’s? xx_

Pete blinked at his phone in the void that fell between Christmas and New Year. The abyss of cardboard boxes and leftovers and needles falling from the tree to lodge in the soft soles of his feet. If Pete were honest, he’d have told Patrick it’s the same as he’d done for the past two years. He’d have told him it involved telling the kids they could stay up until midnight and watching them fall asleep by nine, stuffed full of Chinese take-out (MSG has anaesthetic properties - who knew?). He’d have told him he was planning on downing at least a couple of bottles of hopefully moderately good wine and passing out amongst the jumble of unboxed toys and the slightly sad-looking tree.

Instead, he found himself agreeing to go out with Patrick.

Instead of going out, they tumbled into bed the moment Pete crossed the threshold.

Midnight found him on his knees in Patrick’s bathtub, the champagne glasses abandoned in favour of his tongue eased, soft and teasing, into the tight pucker of Patrick’s hole as he stood, body flush to the tiles and thick, pretty cock all caught up against his stomach. As the fireworks began above Navy Pier, the candlelight lost to raging clashes of jewel-bright colour, Patrick lowered himself down onto Pete’s lap, onto his _cock_ , sheathing him in tight heat with a wicked groan. They worked their hips – slow and lazy thanks to the water – eyes fixed on one another as they fucked their way closer and closer. Pete came with a force as intense as the explosions outside, his vision turned to starbursts as pleasure crawled through his nervous system. In that moment he swore he knew how it felt to be struck by lightning. Patrick, hand around his cock and braced back, drove himself hard and fast onto the sensitive twitch of Pete’s shaft until he came with a moan like music, striping Pete’s chest with ribbons of white that glowed red and blue and green in the light.

So, much later, sore and sated and wrapped in the pale silk of Patrick’s arms, cheek pressed to a chest scattered with honey blonde hair, the whispered invitation of _are we a thing_ didn’t terrify him. He nodded with a sigh of _I think we are_. He kissed soft, fuck-flushed lips and groaned as a warm hand found its way between his legs, coaxing life into a dick he was sure was spent. It should have felt too soon but it didn’t.

He glowed gold.

~*~

The first time Pete said _I love you_ was the first time he saw Patrick blush. He was pretty in pink against the white of his sheets. He giggled silliness as he repeated it back, as he pushed Pete down to the mattress and kissed him breathless. Penny - Patrick’s tiny and adorable Pomeranian - yipped her agreement from the bedroom floor, turning on her tail and completing a victory lap of the apartment, knocking over the Valentines card from its spot on the coffee table. Pete though he might explode from the sheer perfection of the curve of Patrick’s jaw as he peppered it with delicate kisses.

Pete sparkled like the streaming February sunshine, blown away by the realisation that he could feel that way again.

~*~

The first time Patrick met the kids wasn’t what Pete imagined. He’d thought maybe a picnic, a trip to a museum, or the Easter egg hunt in the park at the weekend, something wholesome and fun. He didn’t think it would be in a midnight panic over a fever Teddy couldn’t seem to break. Pete knew he should calm down but illness was a trigger since Emma and he paced the floor, hair a mess and eyes bagged and heavy, phone in one hand and Ted on his hip. There was a tired murmur on the line, the smile in his cadence and sleep on his lips as he slurred a greeting. There was fear in Pete’s voice as he begged, “He’s burning up, please, I don’t know what to do.”

And there was ringing calm in Patrick’s as he replied, “Strip him down, I’ll be there right away.”

So, the kids met Patrick with his work bag, his stethoscope and his tired smile. They met him stooped over Teddy’s bed as he checked his temperature, checked his pulse, checked his mouth and his throat and his ears-like-his-daddy’s. They met him as the man that made everything calm, as the one that ran a hand over Teddy’s cheek and declared him to be absolutely fine. They met him as the man that petted Bella’s hair and told her she was such a good girl for helping her daddy.

They met him again the next morning, tiptoeing past him where he snored on the couch out of mutually-agreed upon propriety.

~*~

Fourth of July brought fireworks and barbeque and cold beer in the backyard of his parents’ house. It brought Patrick, charming with a bottle of wine and a crate of IPA, and chaste kisses in front of Pete’s mom as the kids chased one another around the yard.

It brought Emma’s mom and dad, as it did every year, to spend time with the kids and exchange stories and memories. They got drunk and danced to Bowie, Patrick’s arms around his waist and head against his shoulder as they swayed to the music under a sky lit with diamond bright stars and the brilliant riot of fireworks.

It brought the sting of tears to his eyes when his ex-but-not-really mother in law pulled him to one side and whispered, her own eyes sparked bright with tears, “I like him, Pete. _Emma_ would’ve liked him.”

He held her, pulled her to his chest and they cried together, mourning the woman he’d never stop loving. Out in the yard, Patrick cradled a soundly sleeping Teddy on his lap, Bella curled into his side and Pete swore he felt the cracks starting to pull together a little. Like a broken vase, they’d always be visible, he’d always be rough and imperfect, but maybe he could _work_ again.

~*~

By Halloween, Pete noticed something. He noticed it as they changed into their costumes - Pete a dapper sort of affair in his Jack Skellington suit and complicated make up, Patrick as Luke Skywalker to match Penny’s R2-D2 jacket. He noticed the cardigans hung in the closet next to his t-shirts, the shoes lined up next to his by the door, the socks and underwear that crammed in the dresser next to his own.

He noticed that Patrick had moved in.

He noticed and his heart swelled a little with it, in a way that meant he couldn’t stop touching as they walked the neighbourhood with a pirate and an astronaut, brushing his hand to a smooth cheek, the tender underside of a pale wrist, fingers laced around a leash as they held the hand of a kid each. He noticed as they fell into bed together and Patrick plugged his phone into the charger that was always there, as he sipped from his water glass and slipped his glasses onto the nightstand that held his iPad and wallet and the little bowl where he kept his watch and his car keys.

“I just noticed,” he whispered, as lips closed over his. “You moved in.”

“Observant,” Patrick replied, all twinkling eyes and a hard press in the front of his pajama pants. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

Christmas rolled around again and a tree was bought and trimmed. Gifts were ordered and hidden away in the closet that now contained cornflower blue scrubs next to his band tees, as everywhere flooded with cheesy Christmas songs, Pete took a moment to reflect. He couldn’t say his life was perfect, he still missed Emma with an ache that throbbed down into his bones but it had become bearable. He never thought he’d find the space in his heart to let someone in and yet Patrick found a way, wormed his way inside and watched as it expanded around him. Pete found he _did_ have more love to give, he just needed the right person to show him how, exactly, to go about it.

It was the week before Christmas and the day of their annual trip to the Shining Smiles grotto and Pete was determined to schedule it appropriately, to round the trip off with pizza and ice cream instead of starting it that way to avoid sugar-frosted meltdowns. As he zipped the kids into their coats, fastened scarves and slipped gloves onto small hands he called up the stairs with impatience caught in his voice, “Patrick? You ready, hon?”

“Oh, babe, I’m _so_ sorry,” Patrick appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in the kind of shirt and pants he wore for work, his clinic ID clipped to his belt loop as he clattered down the steps. “I completely forgot about the seasonal flu vaccination clinic, I’m _so_ sorry, kids. I can’t make it.”

Okay, yes, Pete was disappointed. They had somehow become one of those irritating couples that did everything together, every free minute of time devoted to one another and the kids. Then there was the part of him that feared returning to solitude, the part that never wanted to let go of Patrick in case he walked in front of a truck or fell off something high, the part that twitched irrationally at the thought of going to the park alone. But Patrick’s job was important, not the kind of thing he could just call in sick so he put on his bravest smile and nodded with understanding he didn’t really feel.

“I’ll make dinner to make up for it,” Patrick offered, gathering his keys and phone and heading out the door with them but into his BMW and not Pete’s battered SUV. There were kisses and slightly disappointed faces all around but the kids soon perked up at the thought of Santa. At least, until Teddy called out shrilly from the backseat, “Daddy! I forgot Alfie!”

Alfie. The battered, spit-scented stuffed animal that Pete was absolutely not allowed to wash, no matter how many ketchup stains he acquired or how much time Teddy spent sucking on his ears. Patrick assured him bacteria exposure was good for the immune system so Pete tried not to worry too much. But what he _did_ know was that refusing to go back would result in the kind of tantrum he didn’t want to deal with in the middle of Millennium Park and so, with a sigh, he turned the car back towards home.

He was shocked to find the BMW back on the driveway. Shocked and overwhelmingly, stomach-churningly terrified that something had happened to someone, Patrick had taken the call and had to rush home, Pete was going to check his phone to a dozen missed calls and God knows what else. No. He forced himself to breathe.

“Why’s Patrick back?” Bella asked, always paying attention. “Is he coming with us?”

“I don’t know, sweetie,” Pete admitted, a curl of anger creeping in at his edges. Did that asshole _lie_ just to spend the day lounging around in his pajamas, eating chips and watching crappy TV? “Just wait here, the both of you, I’m gonna go and grab Alfie, okay?”

He stole into the house of soft soles, determined to catch Patrick in the act as he dragged the door closed behind him so quietly that it barely made a sound. The TV was switched off but there came the squeak of floorboards upstairs that had him creeping silently up the staircase, avoiding each creaking board as he did so. He could hear panting and soft cursing from their bedroom and for an awful, gut-clenching second, he imagined that Patrick was cheating on him. He shook his head, reminded himself that it was far more likely he’d catch Patrick jerking off and, with a deep breath, shoved open the bedroom door. “THE FUCK PATRICK?!”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Patrick yelped, collapsing to the mattress with a grunt. “Just… get out!”

Pete paused. Pete leaned against the door jamb in utter confusion as he took in the scene before him. Patrick - at least, he _thought_ it was Patrick - with a pillow secured to his front with a couple of belts, red pants caught around his knees and cheeks painted crimson with embarrassment and… actual face paint by the looks of things.

“Patrick?” He decided he didn’t need to elaborate, he let the single word pose all of the more obvious questions.

“I- I can explain,” Patrick stammered, trying to roll back to his feet but struggling thanks to the pillow. He looked a little like a rosy-cheeked turtle, tipped onto its back. Pete thought about helping him. He decided against it.

“You’re cheating?” Pete began slowly, taking in the red jacket trimmed with fur as white as freshly driven snow hung from the closet door, the gleaming beard hooked over the hanger, the shiny black boots on Patrick’s feet. “On my kids. With another grotto?”

“No!” Patrick objected, trying to untangle himself from the pillows and pants and succeeding in escaping neither. “I… Let me explain.”

“Please, do,” Pete prompted, finally taking pity and hauling Patrick upright, reaching for the waistband of his pants and dragging them up over his hips.

Patrick muttered his thanks and secured the pants with a shiny-buckled belt. Flushed and awkward he returned to his perch at the edge of the bed and patted the space next to him. Pete sat down in thin-lipped silence, folding his arms as Patrick tried to take his hand. He was _pissed_ , inner Papa Bear fully awoken and raging as he waited for Patrick to offer something close to an explanation.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Patrick began quietly. “I should have explained it to you but then it started to seem awkward and weird and I just thought… Well, I figured by next year, Bella probably wouldn’t believe and it wouldn’t matter which day I did at the grotto but I wanted to – ”

“You’re not explaining the beginning of this story to me,” Pete pointed out, lower lip set in what he knew was a spectacular and childish pout. “Start there.”

“Okay, yeah,” Patrick nodded and took a deep breath. “So, you know I volunteer, right? Through work?”

Pete made a noise of agreement at the back of his throat. Patrick did volunteer a couple of evenings a month at some youth centre or another in the city. He knew that.

“Well, one of the things I do is… I play Santa,” he pointed to the pillow still strapped to him as though it offered all of the explanation Pete needed, a beaming grin painted on his face that dropped when Pete didn’t join in. “Right, so, I… I’m Santa at the grotto in Millennium Park? Shining Smiles?”

“The one…” Pete trailed off as his brow creased into a frown.

“The one you’re taking the kids to right now, _exactly!”_ Patrick finished for him. It still didn’t make sense. “Look, I figure if this is Bella’s last year of Santa, I wanted to add some realism, I wanted her to see the _same_ Santa as last time so I’d know what she asked for and – _”_

“Wait,” Pete interrupted as something began to make sense. “Last year… That was _you?”_

 _“Yes!”_ Patrick’s grin stretched wide as realisation stole across Pete’s features.

“So, when you saw me in the bar, you _recognised_ me?” He suddenly felt very foolish as a nasty little voice whispered poison in his ear. “Was I, like, a _pity_ fuck or something?”

 _“Seriously_ , Pete?” Patrick reached for his hand gently, squeezing soft and tender as confusion painted his face pale. “I… _no_. How could I go looking for you in a city this size? I didn’t even know your name. Believe me, I’d have asked you out in the grotto but it’s not really appropriate for Santa to hit on the cute dads…”

He was so sincere, so charming with his toothy grin and sparkling sea-blue eyes that Pete couldn’t help but see the ridiculousness in what he suggested, taking the offered hand and gentle kiss with a smile. But then a thought occurred to him, his hand squeezing Patrick’s as he leaned forward eagerly.

“Last year?” He began, Patrick nodded in response. “Bella wouldn’t… She said what she asked for was a secret, but you must know, right? Man, I never know if I get anything right but she _loved_ her gift last year so… What did she ask for?”

“I don’t know, Pete,” Patrick shook his head dubiously. “Santa has to consider data protection of his customers in all instances.”

“Quit dicking around,” Pete warned. “You’ve already pissed me off.”

He waited as Patrick assessed him carefully, as his lips curved into a slow smile. He leaned in as Patrick pressed close for a kiss, faltered as he paused an inch away and breathed the words into the pocket of warm air between their mouths.

“She only asked for one thing,” he began softly, stroking a hand through Pete’s hair. There was a pause, a beat or two of endless time as Pete considered all that he had in front of him; the man he loved and the kids outside and the year they’d shared filled with laughter and tears. He thought of stolen morning kisses, exhaustion heavy in his bones, he recalled date nights and family days, each hushed _I love you_ and the way fingers laced with his at all of the right moments. He thought of the Pete that drove the kids to the grotto last year, and imagined he could stand in front of him, rest a hand on his shoulder and murmur _it’s gonna be okay dude, trust yourself to fall and I swear he’ll catch you._ He saw eyes like sapphire starlight and lips as soft as first kisses as Patrick – wonderful, patient, awkward, dorky, perfectly imperfect Patrick – continued with a voice that shone with love. “She asked Santa to make her daddy happy again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it... it ran away from me somewhat. Also, I'm writing FLUFF now, apparently. How did that happen?
> 
> Please check out the other works in the collection and remember to kudos/comment! It's Christmas - think of it as a gift for someone that you didn't even have to pay for!
> 
> Have a wonderful Christmas (if you're celebrating) or a great weekend (either way) and here's to a wonderful 2018.


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